


That Which We Call

by gollumthegreat



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Denial, Karen and FRIDAY think they are being helpful, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Tony is still living in the Tower, Voyeurism, because I like the Tower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 05:02:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15381240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gollumthegreat/pseuds/gollumthegreat
Summary: “Oh my god, P-Peter.”As soon as he hears it come out of his mouth, Tony freezes.Pepper . . . doesn’t.(Tony uses the wrong name in bed with Pepper, but it's just a stupid accident. Isn't it?)





	1. Chapter 1

“Oh my god, P-Peter.”

As soon as he hears it come out of his mouth, Tony freezes.

Pepper . . . doesn’t.

“ _What_ did you just say?” Her hands shove hard against his shoulders, pushing him off her.

“I—”

What _did_ he just say?

“Tony?” The number of emotions that Pepper can put into her voice at once is remarkable, Tony thinks. This is a pretty stunning mixture of confusion, shock, and—disappointment?

He feels it in the pit of his stomach, before he can even get a word out: it doesn’t matter what he says next, it doesn’t matter that it’s the truth, she’s never going to believe him.

But shit, he has to try.

“I didn’t,” he says. Didn’t what? Didn’t say it? Well, he definitely said it, they both know he said it, so to her, it must sound like he’s saying he didn’t—they haven’t—but even denying it somehow seems like it wills the idea into existence. Like he’s saying _I wanted to, but I didn’t_ , which is—not what is happening here.

“It’s—I don’t know where that came from,” he says. “I have absolutely no—Pepper, it’s just, the names, your names, he’s been in the lab a lot and I’ve said his name a lot—the syllables, it’s just—I mean—”

“Oh my god, Tony,” Pepper says, and she’s off the bed and grabbing her dress, and honestly, how many times have they done this. How many more times can he sit here and watch her walk away from him, no matter what he says or how he says it?

“Pepper, please, this is—this is insane, where are you going? It literally just came out of nowhere. This stuff . . . _happens_ , OK? Brain signals, wires crossed, it’s just—”

“I knew it,” she says, and god, she won’t even look at him. Also, hang on a second, _what_?

“Uh, you _knew it_? Knew _what_? How can you know something if there’s nothing to know? Do you know what that is? It’s paranoia. It’s—insane—”

“Do not,” she says, turning around and pointing at him. She’s just about as angry as he’s ever seen her, and that’s saying something. There are tears in her eyes, but her voice is steady. “Do not try to turn this around on me.” She takes a breath. “I’ve seen how you look at him.” She closes her eyes and takes a breath, looking pained, but opens them again and fixes him with her stare. “I’ve seen how he looks at you.”

“How he—Pepper, Pep, please, don’t _go_ , don’t—”

The door clicks shut quietly behind her because he designed them too well to slam, no matter how much someone might try.

He should go after her. He should—but what else can he say? How else can he convince her when she’s already convinced he’s . . . what, exactly?

Tony lets himself fall backward onto the bed and stares at the ceiling, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

His traitorous dick is still hard somehow, which is distracting, not to mention disrespectful to the whole situation. But as much as Tony tries to be a good person, his dick remains, in a lot of ways, as bad as he ever was, if not worse.

In an attempt to meet it halfway, he wraps a hand around it and rubs his thumb across the head as he tries to think back.

Pepper had been riding him. Expertly. Her hair loose over one shoulder, his hand tangled in it, with his other hand cupping her ass as her muscles flexed underneath his fingers. He had flipped them, her body perfect around him, hot and wet and tight, and he had been thinking about an upgrade for Peter’s suit.

Oh.

(And there is definitely, definitely something wrong with the fact that even now, in this moment, lying naked on his bed, he’s restraining the urge to pull up a screen and start noting down what he’d been thinking of, because honestly, Peter’s suit is one of the most enthralling projects he’s ever worked on. There’s always another level he can take it to, another move that Peter pulls off that inspires him to think of a new way the suit can be tweaked to accommodate him and his powers even better.)

In fact . . .

He lets go of his dick and pulls up a holographic display in the air above him. He just needs a second to get this down. “FRIDAY, open a subfolder in Project Exoskeleton. I’m thinking of a new carbon structure for the suit fabric.”

“Boss, Miss Potts is—”

“I know!” he says. “I know. She needs a second to cool off. And I need you to open up that subfolder.”

“Got it, boss.”

This . . . misunderstanding, it’s ridiculous. It’s so out of left field, it’s almost funny. And he’s not going to think about it right now.

 

It’s the only thing he can think about. _I’ve seen how you look at him_. _I’ve seen how he looks at you._ Tony is down in the lab, ostensibly working on a new kind of shield generator, hopefully something he can scale up to cover a city block, but his mind is stuck replaying Pepper’s words, no matter what he does.

Fine. It’s not like he doesn’t have data. He doesn’t have to take her word for it.

“FRIDAY, can you pull up video from the last time Parker was here?” It was three days ago, Saturday night. Tony was supposed to be at some gala or fundraiser, but Peter had said he had a new idea for a web shooter combination, and Tony had been determined to prove that there was not a single option he hadn’t already thought of—Peter just hadn’t gone through enough of them yet.

FRIDAY plays the video, starting from Peter walking into the lab. Tony claps him on the shoulder, nothing weird there, and Peter gives him a grin, also nothing strange. They’re sitting together in front of a display, Peter’s fingers manipulating the web prototype in front of him, and Tony is watching the screen. That goes on for quite a while. Engineering is fun to do, but it’s pretty dull viewing material. _The way he looks at you_ , what the hell, Pepper. They’re not even looking at each other. “FRIDAY, skip ahead.”

On the screen, Tony grabs the web prototype to examine it in 3-D, from every angle. He rotates it, practices throwing it, while Peter watches him with raised eyebrows, his lips pressed together with nerves or excitement. After a minute, Tony says something. He thinks it was something like “Not bad, kid.” Peter relaxes and grins.

Tony’s just not seeing the problem. Yeah, Peter cares what Tony thinks about his ideas. Tony is his mentor—Peter would be crazy not to care. And sure, maybe Tony is a little more emotionally invested in working with Peter than he would have been with another kid like him, but the thing is, there’s never been anyone else like Peter. They’ve been in fights together, gone on missions together. The stuff they work on for the suit isn’t some science project; it’s Peter’s life, his duty as Spider-Man, in their hands. So, sue him, he’s invested. What’s the problem?

Peter is packing up his stuff, and Tony is giving FRIDAY instructions for how to manufacture the new combination, still looking at the holo display. Peter lingers in the doorway for a second, watching Tony, adjusting his backpack, shifting from foot to foot. Finally he says goodnight, and Tony waves him off.

A perfectly normal, appropriate night of work. Whatever Pepper thinks she’s picking up on, it’s not—

“After this, Peter goes to the fifth-floor bathroom and engages in masturbation. Do you need to hear the audio for that, boss?”

Tony blinks. “We record audio in the—wait, _what_? FRIDAY . . .”

“You’re gathering data on Peter’s body language and physical reactions to your presence. I thought it might be relevant.”

Tony stares blankly at the frozen image on the screen, of Peter walking away, and himself in front of the display.

“Seems like a leap,” he says. “You’re assigning causation. It could be coincidence.”

FRIDAY doesn’t have quite the emotional range that JARVIS had, but Tony could swear he picks up a note of wounded pride in what she says next.

“Number of times Peter has worked with you in the lab over the last six months—thirty-seven. Number of times Peter has pleasured himself in the fifth-floor bathroom immediately after working with you in the lab over the last six months—thirty-four. At no other time during any of his visits to the Tower does Peter engage in any form of sexual activity, partnered or solo. Duration of his time in the fifth-floor bathroom, per visit, in the last six months—”

“OK, OK, that’s enough, FRIDAY, stop with the stats.” He lets out a breath, rubbing his eyes, and doesn’t think before he says what he says next. “Play the audio.”

_The door clicks shut. Peter sighs and drops his backpack. The tap runs for a second._

_Silence._

_Silence._

_A soft rustle of fabric, and the quiet sound of a zipper. Peter exhales through his nose. More fabric sounds, like maybe he’s sliding his jeans down._

_Silence._

“FRIDAY,” says Tony. “Can you bump the volume.”

_A white noise buzz. And then, barely audible, a small wet sound. Again. And again. Peter takes a deep breath and lets it out, loud now that the volume is so high. The wet, slick sounds get louder, more rhythmic._

_Peter lets out a noise, halfway between a grunt and a whimper, and the sounds speed up._

Tony realizes he’s hard. His pulse seems to be beating along with the sounds of Peter touching himself.

_The recording device is picking up Peter’s breathing now, fast and hard. Every few strokes he takes a deeper breath, almost a gasp, sounding shaky._

_“Please,” he whispers. “Please, please.” With the volume up, it’s like he’s whispering right in Tony’s ear._

Tony swallows. His mouth is dry.

_“Oh, fu—” Peter cuts himself off, like maybe he’s biting his lip or trying not to be too loud. He takes a shuddering breath and lets out a sigh that ends with a little choking sound. Then silence, broken only by Peter’s panting, slowing down as he catches his breath. Then the water is running again, like Peter is cleaning himself up. The sound of his zipper going back up is clear and unmistakable._

“Turn it off,” he says to FRIDAY, like it makes a difference now, like he hasn’t already heard—everything. Too much.

He gets up and walks to the elevator, stares at the buttons for a minute. He could go up to the penthouse, to his bed, finish this, and then get back to work and never think about it again. That’s probably the thing to do. The responsible, normal, healthy thing to do.

He punches the button for the fifth floor.

It’s not that weird. It’s not like Peter is still there. It happened days ago. Anyway, it’s his tower. He can use any bathroom he pleases.

The fifth floor is a service floor, janitorial and non-essential storage. He guesses that’s why Peter picked it. It’s out of the way, quiet. The lobby bathrooms or the headquarters bathrooms are both nicer, with tasteful lighting, décor, amenities.

But people use them. Peter must have been worried about getting caught.

(Though not so worried that he didn’t do it.)

Tony pictures him the first time, desperate, scanning the floor guide in the elevator for the best place to go, and—

Or maybe not. Maybe he felt daring, excited. Like he was getting away with something.

 _Thirty-four times_. That’s not a teenage impulse-control issue. That’s a compulsion. A kink. Peter gets off on this.

Tony thinks he should feel upset, annoyed, alarmed. Possibly offended. Instead, he just feels . . . dizzy. And . . . flattered?

He walks down the hallway. The dark blue carpet muffles his footsteps.

What the hell is he going to say he’s doing if one of the cleaning staff catches him down here? He stifles what feels like it might be a hysterical giggle at how ridiculous this is.

The bathroom is the third door on the left. He pushes it open cautiously, but of course there’s no one there. Peter is in Queens, at school, or doing homework, or something. He’s not _there_.

But he’s been there. Tony is tracing his footsteps. _Thirty-four times_.

He walks in, locks the door behind him. Turns and faces himself in the mirror.

Well. He’s here.

The bathroom is clean, the trash can empty. His cleaning staff is clearly doing a bang-up job. He thinks for a second about the recording device—but on the other hand, who the hell besides him is even going to think to access it?

Is he really doing this?

He’s really doing this.

He unzips his jeans and eases them down, wincing a little as the air hits the damp fabric over his dick. Reaching out, he grips the edge of the sink basin with one hand and presses down against himself with the other, thrusting up into the pressure. He closes his eyes.

He feels like there’s an afterimage of Peter imprinted in the air all around him. Like Tony is mirroring him, not in control of his own body anymore, just blindly following where Peter leads him.

He slips a hand inside his underwear and grips himself. Lets out a shaky breath, like Peter did. His dick pulses as he imagines Peter standing here, right here, playing with himself, and thinking . . . thinking . . .

“Oh god,” he mutters. Peter, touching himself and thinking about Tony. A kid’s fantasy, probably. Something silly. He’d probably be disappointed with the reality of sex with Tony Stark—Tony desperate for touch, fumbling, consumed by his need to get close and be held. Not exactly a smooth playboy performance. Not what a teenager would fantasize about.

Tony imagines Peter in front of him, facing the mirror, his back pressed against Tony’s chest, Tony’s arm tight around his waist, pulling their bodies together. Peter’s clever, strong fingers reaching back and burying themselves in Tony’s hair. Pulling his head down against Peter's neck.

He thrusts into his hand like he would grind up against Peter’s ass (the curve of it, can’t blame him for noticing, he’d have to be _dead_ not to notice, he’s the one who designed the suit that shows it off so well, after all), and he can almost hear the breathy, high sounds coming out of Peter’s mouth as his head falls back against Tony’s shoulder, overwhelmed, and it’s not Tony’s dick throbbing and pulsing out his pleasure, it’s Peter’s, Peter . . .

 _“Peter,”_ he whispers.


	2. Chapter 2

The thing about making a mistake, Tony thinks, is that you don’t have to keep making it. You can—as they say—stop any time you want.

Pepper’s meeting him for dinner. They’re going to clear the air. Get all of the weirdness out in the open and dealt with and done. No problem.

Because the thing is, nothing happened. Information is not the same as an _event_. Saying something, thinking about something, isn’t the same as _doing_ something. Tony . . . knows what he knows about Peter now. But it was happening before. It’s been happening for six months. And Tony’s knowledge of it actually has no meaningful impact on their situation, because Peter will keep doing what he’s doing. Or he won’t. Or whatever he wants. And Tony will do nothing, because there’s nothing he can or should do about it. What a boy does in the privacy of his mentor’s fifth-floor bathroom is no one’s business but his own, and if a teenager jerks off in the forest, and there’s no one around to make an accidental audio recording of it, did it even really happen?

As far as Tony is concerned, the answer is no.

 

When she shows up to dinner, Pepper looks . . . fine. Lovely, even. But more importantly, she doesn’t look any stripe of upset that Tony is familiar with—and he’s familiar with a lot. Which is good, right? That seems good. But she is avoiding eye contact, and that might be something worse altogether.

They order. The waiter leaves. Pepper takes a sip of wine, then sets down her glass, and finally looks up at Tony.

“I want to apologize,” she says, and his stomach plummets before he can even think about what that might mean. “I—jumped to a conclusion. A pretty big conclusion. And I didn’t let you explain, which definitely wasn’t fair. And—”

“Pepper—”

“Tony, please. Just . . . let me finish saying this.” She takes a breath. “Peter—has a crush. That’s _normal_. And there was a long, long period of time when you would have taken advantage of that kind of thing, and I would have looked the other way, and I know—I _know_ —that’s not who you are anymore. It’s not who _I_ am anymore. And it’s not . . . healthy, for me to fall back into thinking about either of us like that. All those years of watching you with other people, sometimes I don’t know if I can—” She pauses. “But I want to. Trust you. I do trust you, Tony.”

So. The response she’s looking for here is probably not, _Look, maybe you were right, maybe there is some kind of sexual thing on the kid’s end, and maybe I was inadvertently picking up on it or encouraging it, but now that I know, I’ll be good, I’ll be careful, you don’t have anything to worry about_. Which was his plan for this conversation, in the spirit of confession and openness and honesty.

But that now seems like it would be a step in the wrong direction, when Pepper is here, that look in her eyes, giving him the benefit of the doubt, offering him her trust, making him want to live up to it. How would it help either of them, getting into all the messy, irrelevant details?

“Well, let’s be honest,” he says. “Can you blame him?” He gestures mockingly at himself, and grins, and Pepper rolls her eyes and smiles back at him, and if he doesn’t say a name in bed that night, well, it's not a requirement, is it?

 

Peter is coming to the lab for a few hours, and everything is very normal. Tony has two projects he thinks Peter might get a kick out of, the shield generator and a mag lev thing that’s kind of just for fun, and Peter wants to look at the data for the last few break-ins he’s foiled, in case there’s a bigger pattern he’s missing.

“Hey, Mr. Stark!” Peter walks in, drops his backpack in the corner. It must be hot out; his hair is sticking to his forehead, and when he hops up onto a stool next to where Tony is sitting, Tony catches a whiff of his deodorant.

“Parker,” he says, and swipes the shield generator model across to Peter’s screen. He doesn’t turn to look at Peter, but then again, he doesn’t think he would have before, either, so: normal.

“Whoa!” Peter says. He pulls up the cross-section and rotates it, examining the power source and the arrays of sensors. “Is this, like, a repulsor shield?” Then he sees the project name. “Bothan Shield Generator? Really, Mr. Stark, don’t you think that’s a little disrespectful of their sacrifice?”

“Working title, kid. Anyway, nothing wrong with acknowledging an influence.”

“Does that mean you’re going to make lightsabers next? Holy shit, Ned would kill me if I ended up having a real lightsaber. Or what about a double-bladed one, like—”

“Not really a priority. Focus, Peter.”

“Right! Sorry, Mr. Stark. What did you want me to look at?”

“The arrays. It’s working fine in the prototype. But every time I scale it up . . .” He mimes an explosion.

“Guess you’ll only be able to protect prototype Death Stars, then.”

“There’s such a thing as taking a reference too far,” Tony says.

Peter grins, and throws the image of the arrays out across the lab so they can get a closer look at it.

 

It’s a good session. They come up with three possible fixes for the prototype, Peter is suitably impressed by the mag lev, and FRIDAY’s algorithms make short work of connecting the dots on the minor crime spree. They order Indian, Tony has a drink, Peter has a mango lassi, Tony has another drink, and then it’s time for Peter to leave.

All this time, it’s been easy for Tony to not think about it, distracted by the reality of the work, the patter of their conversation. But as he watches Peter pick up his stuff and head for the door, it’s all he can do not to make some terrible joke or something, something to let on that he knows. What would Peter do? he wonders. Panic? Deny it? Play it off as funny? He’d be embarrassed, probably.

Or maybe he wouldn’t.

“Night,” Tony says instead, and he can feel his heart pounding weirdly fast.

“Have a good night, Mr. Stark!” Peter says, cheerful, polite. There’s no way. There’s literally no way that this innocent kid is going to do anything other than hop on the subway home (he won’t even let Happy drive him unless there’s a delay on the trains—he says the subway is faster) and probably drift off to sleep with an angelic smile on his face in his twin bed, with visions of sugarplums dancing in his head.

But it doesn’t matter if he does or not, because Tony’s not going to check.

He’s not. He’s going to get back to work.

It’s been seven minutes since Peter left, more than enough time for him to have gotten to the fifth floor—

Which he’s not going to.

But if he were, he’d be in there right now.

Tony realizes he’s staring at a blank screen, and has been for a while. He blinks.

“FRIDAY,” he says, and then stops.

“Yes, boss?” she finally asks, after his pause has gone on for too long.

He can’t. He _can’t_. He doesn’t even want to. He doesn’t want to know.

“Where’s the kid?” He can’t say his name, not right now.

“Peter is in the fifth-floor bathroom.”

Tony covers his eyes with one hand and lets out a breath.

“What is he—” He swallows. “What’s he doing?”

“He’s touching himself.”

Fuck. _Fuck_.

This is . . . bad.

“Can you—” It’s not too late. He can stop this right now, no harm, no foul, and it’ll be just like it was before. He can still stop this train. “—play the audio?”

In a way, it’s a relief to give in, to admit the truth. He’s not good enough to live up to the trust Pepper’s placed in him. He never was. He never will be. And when he wants something that’s right in front of him, he takes it.

The sound of Peter’s unsteady breathing fills the room. It’s too loud, too public. Tony snags a pair of headphones and puts them on, then leans back and closes his eyes so he can focus.

_Peter is breathing so hard, he’s almost panting. But there are no wet, slick sounds like Tony is expecting. For a second, he wonders if FRIDAY made a mistake. Peter almost sounds like he’s crying._

_Then he hears it. Softer than last time, a more tentative rhythm, punctuated by Peter’s gasps and whimpers, the sharp intake of breath through his teeth when he goes too deep._

_Peter is fucking himself with something._

Holy shit. The balls on this kid. Tony’s history includes plenty of ill-advised sexual encounters in unusual places, but that was spur-of-the-moment, needs-must stuff. Entitled rich kid bullshit. This—this is something else. Peter must have _planned_ for this. Had stuff in his backpack. The whole time they were working together, had Peter been thinking about this?

Or maybe, he thinks, stomach sinking—maybe this isn’t actually about Tony at all. Maybe it’s about privacy, somewhere Peter can experiment, let himself go without worrying about his aunt walking in on him.

“FRIDAY, kill the audio,” he says. The pornographic soundtrack cuts out, leaving Tony with just the sound of blood pounding in his ears. He pulls off the headphones.

Christ, what was he _doing_. Invading Peter’s privacy, so sure it was all about him, when really it was just a horny teenage boy trying to find the space to figure out what he likes.

“This is the first time Peter has engaged in any kind of sexual stimulation other than manual-genital contact in the fifth-floor bathroom,” FRIDAY adds, helpfully.

“Thank you,” Tony says. “I don’t think I asked.” He swallows. It’s not his business, but—“Is he . . . OK? Is he being safe?”

“He appears to be using sufficient lubrication, but is having difficulty achieving orgasm.”

Huh. Really? Even with his amped-up senses? “Why?”

“Analysis suggests he is attempting to achieve climax from anal stimulation alone, but is insufficiently experienced in his technique to do so.”

 _Sounds like he needs someone to come give him a hand_ , a voice in Tony’s head suggests, which, nope, not even touching that idea with a ten-foot pole.

Still, that explains why Peter had sounded so worked up on the audio feed. And there might be a way for Tony to help him, without letting on that he knows, or embarrassing him, or even really being involved.

“Hey, FRIDAY, can you pull Karen up from here?”

“Sure, boss, what do you want her to do?”

“Can she, I don’t know . . . talk Parker through it or something?”

“She can offer.”

“Cool. Great. Do it.” He pauses. “Turn the audio back on.”

The sound Peter is making when the audio feed starts up is almost a whine, and is followed by him taking several deep breaths. Then—

_“Peter?”_

_He yelps. “Karen? What are you—the suit isn’t—Karen, what are you doing here?”_

_“FRIDAY said you might need some help. Can I be of assistance?”_

_“FRIDAY?” Peter says, sounding horrified. “She knows I’m here?”_

_“Of course,” Karen says. “She knows everything that happens in the Tower.”_

_“Oh my god. Oh my god oh my god, oh no oh no oh no.”_

Now Peter sounds about a second away from a panic attack, which wasn’t the goal. Why is it that every time Tony tries to help, he somehow ends up making things worse?

_“Karen,” Peter says urgently. “You won’t tell Mr. Stark about this, will you?”_

“Sorry, kid,” Tony mutters.

_“I’m only here to help you, Peter,” Karen says. “Do you need any help?”_

Dodging the question without actually lying. That’s his girl.

_“Um,” Peter says. “Uh. Maybe? Is that . . . OK, if I do?”_

_“Anything you want to do is fine, Peter.”_

_“Oh. OK. Well, I’m . . . I’ve been trying to, you know. But I can’t—it’s not . . . working.” A note of desperation creeps into his voice. “I get close, you know? But it’s not enough. It felt really good at first, when I first, um, put it in. But now it just feels like I’m . . . full?”_

_“It sounds like you aren’t stimulating your prostate correctly, Peter,” Karen says._

_“Yeah,” Peter says. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I think maybe it’s the angle?”_

_“I believe the toy you’re using is not suited to anal penetration,” Karen says._

_“Oh.” Peter sounds dejected. “It was the cheapest one.”_

Tony shudders to think. There’s zero ways for him to somehow give Peter recommendations for this kind of thing, but the idea of Peter’s first time being in a bathroom with some bargain-bin dildo has Tony literally wincing. Peter deserves better.

_“Since your flexibility is greater than an average human, I would suggest using your fingers instead. It will be easier to achieve the correct angle, and to control your speed and pressure.”_

_“Uh, OK,” Peter says. “It’s, um, really weird to hear you talking about this stuff. But thanks? I guess?”_

_“You’re welcome, Peter,” Karen says, her voice as warm and friendly as always. “I’m happy I could help.”_

_“OK. Um. Can you, like, leave now, though?” Peter says._

_“Sure thing. Good luck!”_

_“Th-thanks?”_

Tony figures that’s his cue, as well. If concern for Peter’s well-being is his motivation here, then he’s already gone above and beyond the call of, well, duty. The time has come to bid Peter’s adventure in sexual exploration adieu, and go busy himself doing . . . literally anything besides eavesdropping on him.

He doesn’t seem to be doing that, though.

There’s a soft, wet sound from the audio feed. Then another one.

Tony closes his eyes.

Peter lets out a shuddery sigh. Tony can hear every little hitching gasp. He can hear him swallowing, and the smacking sound of his lips parting as his breathing starts to speed up again. And underneath it all, the slick sounds of Peter’s fingers. It sounds like he’s found a comfortable rhythm now—more control over his movements, just like Karen had suggested. Which should mean that soon, soon . . .

“Ohh,” Peter moans, and Tony feels his own stomach muscles tighten up in a sympathetic flex of arousal, heat gathering in the pit of his stomach, and lower. Peter sounds genuinely shocked, but like he’s trying to keep quiet. God, Tony would give anything to be able to see his face right now. To see his hand buried between his legs.

“Peter,” he murmurs, and he feels his hips lift up into the air, like there’s something there for him to fuck into. “God, _Peter_.”

He knows that Peter’s answering whimper is a coincidence, but it’s so, so easy to imagine that it’s in response to Tony touching him. He’d make it good for him. He’d try so hard to make it good.

Peter sounds desperate again, but in a good way this time, his breath hitching and shivering, interspersed with little choked moans and shaky _oh_ s, but Tony can hear how fast and hard his fingers are moving, and he knows Peter is close. Just a few more strokes with his fingertips in just the right place.

“Oh, _oh_!” Peter sounds almost hysterical now, but still so quiet. Tony wonders what sounds he would make if it was Tony touching him, Tony inside of him. He shudders and presses his knuckles down against himself through his pants. He wonders how many fingers Peter has inside himself, how deep they are.

“Ah! Oh, _f-f-fuck_ ,” Peter whispers, drawing the syllables out on a long exhale.

Tony swallows and opens his eyes. “Off,” he says.

The audio stops, but his mind keeps going, filling in the blanks so easily now that he’s seen where it happens. Peter wincing as he slides his wet fingers out with a filthy noise. The red marks on his forearm from where he was leaning against the counter. Turning on the water, dampening a paper towel so he can clean himself up. Bending down to pull up his underwear, his jeans, legs a little wobbly from the overload of sensation.

Tony pictures himself standing behind Peter, steadying him. Tucking him away and zipping him up, straightening his T-shirt, running his fingers through those curls. Running his lips down the back of his neck, Peter tilting his head to give him more room. Tony sliding his fingertips under Peter's waistband. Peter sucking in a breath, already over-stimulated, but excited, happy to be touched—

Tony groans. No. This isn’t about him. This is about Peter. Peter, who needs somewhere better than a bathroom (and something better than the cheapest-possible dildo) if he’s going to keep this kind of thing up. One of the guest bedrooms, maybe? God knows the kid doesn’t get enough sleep, between patrolling and homework and staying at the Tower later than he’s supposed to—it wouldn't be unreasonable to offer to let him spend the night sometime.

Peter won't be coming by the lab again until the weekend. That’s more than enough time for Tony to do a little research, make a few purchases, set a few things up.

He does love a new project.

**Author's Note:**

> Peter Parker, Pepper Potts—they have the same initials, they have the [same T-shirt](https://www.reddit.com/r/marvelstudios/comments/5hiizy/peter_parker_and_pepper_potts_have_the_same_tshirt/), they both call him Mr. Stark . . . this really isn't Tony's fault, is it? Nah.
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr](https://gollumthegreat.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
